Omega

It was a statement. They had met on several occasions, though Owain had never been formally introduced.

“I gather from your uncle that you recently had a narrow escape,” he remarked. “Some business in the West End?”

What was he supposed to say to this?

“An old incendiary went off,” he replied.

“Really?”

Surely Legister would know all the details. Was he fishing for more? Or was this the opportunity for Owain to confess that he met Marisa regularly? To stress as well that their friendship was a purely innocent one?

He couldn’t bring himself to admit it. Hated to imagine the two of them even sharing the same space.

“And are we fully recovered?” Legister prompted.

Owain gave the curtest of nods. “Sir.”

“You must tell me about it. I would be interested in the details.”

He had a reptilian stillness, making only minimal movements. It was impossible to imagine what Marisa was like in his company, what she made of their marriage. They tended to steer away from the subject. It was far too dangerous.

“Biscuit?” Owain said, offering a plate.

Legister put a palm up. “They tell me you were lucky to survive.”

“The report I was carrying was salvaged.”

A stupid thing to say, and Legister was suitably unimpressed. “Oh, good soldier,” he said in a tone too weary for contempt. “Must make sure the paperwork isn’t lost, mustn’t we?”

There was a burst of coughing at the other end of the table. His uncle, beckoning to him, hauling himself to his feet. Owain set the tray down and hurried to his side.

“Get me outside, boy,” he managed to say.

Owain shepherded him through the door and into the kitchen.

“Water,” Sir Gruffydd instructed, half pushing him away, still coughing.

His cheeks were the colour of damsons, his lips flecked with biscuit crumbs. He leant on a table while Owain put a tumbler under the cold water tap.

The field marshal took the glass from him and drained it in one. Removing a handkerchief, he swabbed his lips. He breathed in deeply, didn’t cough again. Already his colour was returning to normal.

“Narrow escape,” he said to Owain in Welsh. “I think you can leave it to us now. I expect you’d like to get some air, yes?”

Owain was surprised by this. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Wouldn’t say so otherwise. We’ll be winding up soon. Take yourself off. It’s an order, Owain.”

NINETEEN

The elevator carried Owain up four, five, six, seven floors. Until now I hadn’t realised he was underground.

The surface hall of the building was thick with security personnel, most of them women. He walked out blinking into the wan late afternoon light, relieved to be released from the fetid smokiness of the conference room.

Beyond the anti-aircraft and missile batteries a long rectangular frozen lake was spread out in front of him, lined on both sides with bare upright poplars. A breeze fnfesouth had raised the temperature unexpectedly. It was almost balmy.

On the balcony were stalls selling drinks and pastries, their cherry-striped awnings incongruously festive in the greyness. The prospect of warmer weather had tempted staff outdoors. They were largely women, a few of Arab or African descent, huddling in their greatcoats over hot drinks.

Everyone was talking in French. Only now did I become aware that we were no longer in London but rather the Alliance’s western continental headquarters in Versailles. Owain had flown out with his uncle for the chiefs of state conference.

He paid an extortionate price for a double espresso, which came with a small chocolate wafer wrapped in silver foil. The coffee was intensely bitter, the chocolate flavourless and gritty, a triumph of style over substance. He gazed out over the ashen parkland, frustrated that he was not able to pursue his investigations into what had happened to him in Regent Street.

“Do you mind if we join you?

It was Giselle Vigoroux. And standing at her shoulder was Marisa.

She wore her black fur coat and smiled uncertainly at him. Giselle was holding two cappuccinos and Owain immediately rose to seat them. It was three days since he had last seen Marisa.

Giselle did not allow any awkward hiatus to develop, immediately remarking that the majority of staff at the headquarters was female and asking Owain’s opinion on the desirability of enlisting women into frontline combat units.

Owain shrugged. Privately he considered the prospect a recipe for indiscipline and a rapid decline in combat efficiency. But he said, “It might work, as long as it’s done on a voluntary basis. And I think you’d need to keep the sexes separate.”

“Indeed?” Giselle said. “What, all-female armies?”

“Just within units. Say on a battalion level. Otherwise there could be complications.”

Giselle took a sip of her coffee.

“I take it you’re in favour,” I made Owain say.

“To the contrary. I am against it. Unless you replace men entirely, from bottom to top. In that way we might see a more rational conduct to our military efforts. Who knows, we might even decide to stop fighting altogether.”